Ást, or something like it
by coeurgryffondor
Summary: Just once, Emil would appreciate it if someone really, honestly loved him, or something like it. / Tumblr holiday request for any Iceland pairing. Sweden/Iceland, Turkey/Iceland, Denmark/Iceland, Hong Kong/Iceland, Finland/Iceland, Russia/Iceland, Norway/Iceland, France/Iceland, Iceland/OFC.


Author's note: Tumblr holiday request (norge-has-wifi): « Could I possibly request some more iceland? any pairing, im not really picky uvu » How about all the Iceland pairings? :D Since Icelanders are suppose to be the most beautiful people in the world and since Iceland so rarely gets the love (read: sex) he deserves, it's only fair that Iceland finally gets his moment.

* * *

**Ást, or something like it**

1.

Emil doodles in his notebook, no longer even pretending to pay attention. It's a puffin with lines radiating out from around it; he's already stolen some of Berwald's colored Sharpie pens (that Berwald had stolen from Lukas who had stolen them from Matthew at an Arctic Council meeting weeks ago) to do a collection of flags on the previous page.

A large hands sneaks in to tug his notebook away, Emil checking to see that the other Nords are all in various states of being asleep (well not Lukas– Emil's pretty sure his brother doesn't sleep at this point, too strung up on caffeine) before looking at Berwald. Without a word the man sketches something out on a new page, coloring it lightly before passing it back.

The Icelandic nation runs his fingers over the quick sketch of himself wearing what best resembles his brother's Viking garb, standing in barren land. It makes Emil's eyes go wide and his breathing hitch.

The man leans down close, kissing just beneath an Icelandic ear as a hand runs up his leg, before whispering, "Emil," in a tone that's nothing less than lustful.

* * *

In an unused office, their fellow nations looking for them, Berwald fucks Emil against a desk until they collapse together on the floor. "You're so beautiful," Berwald whispers in his ear, no emotion on his face, but the Icelander knows he means it and kisses him.

* * *

2.

Sadık has already spent the last ten minutes trying to explain a joke to Emil that clearly doesn't translate well from Turkish, the two sitting in some hidden corner of some bustling restaurant. For a man who claimed to not like men, Emil figures Sadık probably brings all his male dates here, too busy a room for anyone to pay attention to them with a companion too in love with the male form to deny his addiction.

"You can stop trying to impress me," the Icelander finally interrupts. When his Turkish companion pulls a face he adds, "Let's get out of here and you can impress me with something else." That makes Sadık light up.

* * *

Dark arms hold his pale chest to the man, their breathing still slowing, Emil exhausted as lips kiss his neck. "No one's beautiful like you are," Sadık whispers against his skin and it makes the younger man sigh.

* * *

3.

Christen keeps whining from where Emil has tied him to the bed, the man twisting and turning, pulling at his bindings, trying to say something despite the gag in his mouth.

"Calm down," the Icelander murmurs coolly from his chair in the corner of the room, eyes wide as he takes in the glorious sight. He's enjoying this way more than he should.

The man whines again.

"I hope he finds us," Emil breathes, finally standing. He saunters lazily to the bed, both men fully naked; Christen stills. "I hope he finds us fucking, don't you? Remind him that we're not expendable? Hmm?" Emil runs a finger down Christen's jawline as he kneels on the edge of the mattress before moving to straddle the Dane. He rocks his hips a few times, his body already prepared, before guiding Christen's erection to where it belongs.

* * *

Sure they're about to come Emil finally pulls the gag from Christen's mouth for sloppy, needy kisses as he feels the man beneath him spasm. The younger one comes first though, hot and sticky between them, before his Danish lover follows with a loud groan.

That's when someone at the door demands, "What the hell's going on here?" Emil doesn't both turning his head, laying down on his brother's boyfriend's chest.

"Um, well, you see–" Christen stutters before, knowing he's already in trouble, sighing, "Not my fault your brother's so fucking hot, ok? Find less attractive siblings next time."

* * *

4.

Their texts are like foreplay, the vibration of phones in back pockets as they sit across from one another in the airport terminal. Leon's face is always calm and bored as he pulls his phone out, lazily stroking down the screen in large, fluid movements before smirking, oh so knowingly, and turning the phone sideways to key in his response. Then he slides the phone back into his pocket, making a face of sublime bliss as if something else was sliding against his ass, those dark eyes meeting Emil's light ones.

And the Icelandic nation does his best to reciprocate, to mimic, to tease in the most nonchalant of ways that gives away none of the raunchiness in their texts nor the tension building between them.

Emil doesn't think he's ever loved anyone as much as Leon. The only part that hurts, though, as the man the world called Hong Kong rises, finally heading for their hotel, is that he knows Leon doesn't love him the same. To Leon it's a game; for Emil it's everything.

* * *

They face each other under the sweaty sheets, bodies barely touching, breathing loud and heavy. Emil's face still burns with passion as Leon reaches out to stroke his cheek. "I think I might love you," the Icelandic nation whispers which makes his companion smile.

"Oh Emil. You are beautiful and you are mine but you know we aren't in love. I don't believe in that sort of bullshit."

"Yeah," he murmurs lamely, "I know." Emil isn't sure if he does believe really, in something he's never had before.

* * *

5.

The escape is easy, really: when Berwald, Lukas, and Christen are in a room together for any time over 10 minutes and there's no food in front of them, an argument will break out. And so the escape itself is easy.

It's once they've broken away that Emil and Timo still aren't exactly sure of, normally just taking each other in out in the hallway before coming together in some act of desperation. Well, no, maybe desperation wasn't exactly right: not desperate like the thirsty man to water but rather more like a teenage boy about to have sex for the very first time. There's no grace, no dignity, and erections that won't last very long.

Sometimes they take it slow, the foreplay, drawing it out as they move from room to room before finding the perfect spot. Today they make their way through the kitchen, Timo feeding crumbling pieces of cookie to the Icelander. When they leave the room the Finnish nation becomes more confident as if he's finally figured something out, pulling Emil to Berwald's study.

Into an oversized leather chair (well, oversized to them: probably regular sized to the Swede) Timo falls, spreading his legs and signaling for Emil to close the door.

And Emil likes this plan.

* * *

They hold each other close, mainly because the Finnish man is one for cuddles, and the sound of arguing passes the room.

"Can't believe we did this in his study," Emil whispers; Timo and Berwald were still married after all.

"Oh whatever," the Finn sighs before kissing him more strongly than anyone would expect from Timo. "Can I help it if you're so much better and so damn attractive?"

* * *

6.

A snowflake flutters lazily past the window. "Thought it wasn't going to snow," Emil murmurs. Ivan from where he's stretched out before the fireplace shrugs lazily.

"Welcome to Russia," and he stifles his own name with a yawn.

From the window seat Emil admires the man who was from a land as cold and foreboding as his own though, granted, a bit bigger than Iceland. Ivan scares most of the nations and yes, he scares Emil, but it lessens with each visit, with each brushing of their hands accidentally as he moved past the Russian to get to the other Nordic nations, with each stolen moment that Emil should never let happen.

And yet he does.

"Snow's boring," Ivan whispers, holding out his tumbler of vodka. "Come enjoy something much better."

Normally when alcohol was offered to him Lukas would knock it out of his way, or Christen or Berwald would take it by orders of the Norwegian. Even Timo has stopped Emil from drinking as if he was a child and not a fully grown… something or other.

Kneeling beside the Russian he takes a deep gulp of the vodka, his cheeks burning as Ivan wraps an arm around his waist.

* * *

Fingers push hair from his face, the two wrapped up under the blanket. Now the wind outside is howling, everything a white blur.

"What beauty," Ivan muses in a hushed whispered before kissing Emil, drawing their naked forms together once more for another go.

* * *

7.

It's another one of their petty arguments that sets them off today, screaming and throwing things as brothers were wont to do after so many centuries. Very quickly Emil forgets what they had been yelling about as the punches go lower and lower until they're insulting each other in ways only they can, hitting the spots only the other knows is vulnerable.

There's the crescendo, the breaking of the argument over them, and finally they're left staring at one another from opposite sides of the space.

Lukas moves first, great, confident strides towards the Icelander before grabbing him and forcing their mouths to meet, his tongue coming through Emil's lips.

Legs like jelly and weighing a thousand kilograms at the same time, he collapses along with his brother until their fight continues on the floor, a struggle for dominance.

* * *

After the Norwegian lays for only a minute or two before immediately standing and beginning to redress himself. Emil watches with eyes like slits, both jealous of his brother's ease and also angry that the man could never commit one way or another: some days Emil was a little boy Lukas only loves as a child he raised; others he's a man that Lukas can't get enough of. It's more than enough to drive the Icelandic one crazy.

Lukas forces Emil to roll over with his foot, slapping his brother's ass and stealing one last kiss. "Such beautiful things we are, hmm?" With that he leaves and Emil begins to once more seethe.

* * *

8.

How long he's been ranting to Francis, Emil isn't sure, but the whole time the French nation sits patiently, nodding and smiling and making small sounds of shock as he brings his neat eyebrows together. "Non!"

"Yes, and I fucking hate when they do that!" Emil yells in that tone he adopts with Francis that somehow never rises; in the little café they've hardly been noticed and the younger nation would like to keep it that way. "I'm not a child."

There's a hum of agreement as Francis reaches out a lazy and manicured hand to lay atop Emil's on the table, stroking the back of his hand with those long fingers. "Believe me, my dear Émile, I know," and he slowly nods his head, big blue eyes holding Emil captive as a smile grows on his bearded face.

* * *

Shifting his head on Francis's chest to better look into the man's face, Emil is upset in a way that the nation of love isn't smoking. He knew the man had given up smoking years ago but still, it feels like he should be smoking.

Francis strokes up and down Emil's back as if admiring a great sculpture. "Magnifient," he murmurs. "Quelle beauté." But the Icelander feels nothing at that, sick of being only something beautiful. He's sick of them all.

* * *

9.

She's standing just outside Customs, off to one side eyeing up the others waiting for arrivals with suspicion. Emil does his best to not draw attention to himself, sneaking past the other passengers from his flight back to Iceland.

Her face lights up when she sees him, holding out her arms. "Emil," she barely breathes as he comes close, embracing her.

"Let's go, ok?" he whispers and she nods, turning with him to leave. She takes his hand on the way out of the airport.

* * *

Over dinner that night in his apartment Eydís fills Emil in on everything he's missed while gone and though the truth is he knows all of this already, the nation lets her talk.

Eydís was different: she was shy and quiet and put-upon like he was, but she was also strong in her own way, feisty. She was Icelandic, a nice change of pace for Emil who could finally speak his own language.

But most of all she was with Emil for him, not for his looks or land or immortal companionship.

"I love you," he interrupts. Their time together would be short, they both knew it. After about six months of dating Emil had told Eydís the truth and they'd both decided to give it five years: at the end of that time they'd decide what they wanted to do next.

Eydís smiles serenely, taking Emil's hands in hers. "I love you too," she says without hesitation and he doesn't doubt it.


End file.
